


How Many Secrets Can You Keep?

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunken Flirting, Drunkenness, Fade to Black, M/M, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21642424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Whitemere, cravat-less, his collar askew and a bruise forming on his jaw, blinked dully at Carruthers."You're not killing me," he observed."Not yet," Carruthers said.
Relationships: Dissolute Regency Rake/Assassin Hired to Kill Him
Comments: 14
Kudos: 42
Collections: 300bpm Flash Exchange November 2019, Anonymous





	How Many Secrets Can You Keep?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/gifts).



> This was written for 300bpm, a flash exchange in which stories are inspired by songs. The song for this one is "Do I Wanna Know?" by Arctic Monkeys. [Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpOSxM0rNPM) | [Lyrics](https://genius.com/Arctic-monkeys-do-i-wanna-know-lyrics)

When the assassin slipped through the window, David Harham, Baron Whitemere, was, if you will pardon the expression, drunk as a lord.

"I hear you!" he slurred, waving a bottle of brandy about as though he were using it to swat flies out of the air. "You're not so _clever_ as all that."

"I hardly need to be silent," Mr. Reginald Carruthers said, padding over to the foot of the bed to regard his lordship's state of dishevelment. "Given how much noise you're making."

"I do not fear death!" Whitemere cried, and then he fell out of bed. "Bloody hell," he mumbled against the floor.

Carruthers seized him by one arm and hauled him to his feet. The brandy bottle remained behind, its contents slowly soaking into a fine woolen carpet that cost more than the assassin earned in a year (and his services were not inexpensive). Whitemere, cravat-less, his collar askew and a bruise forming on his jaw, blinked dully at Carruthers.

"You're not killing me," he observed.

"Not yet," Carruthers said.

"You _ought_ to," Whitemere said fiercely. "I'm paying you enough."

"I know. But..." He gestured at Whitemere's rumpled clothes, the reek of liquor, the unshaven cheeks. "It doesn't seem right to do you in when you're like this."

"How the bloody hell should I be, then?"

Carruthers winced. "Quieter, for one."

There was a polite knock. "My lord?" came the inquiring voice of Whitemere's valet. "Are you well?"

"I'm singing in the fucking bath!" Whitemere yelled. "Fuck off!"

"Very well, my lord." The valet's footsteps beat a hasty retreat.

"How about I come back tomorrow," Carruthers said.

"What the devil kind of killer are you?" Whitemere realized Carruthers still had him by the arm and pulled away like a petulant child. "Can't kill one man in his, in his cups? Give me back my money."

Carruthers drew back, insulted. "I am a _professional_ , sir. You could be dead on the floor in ten seconds with none the wiser."

"Then do it!" Whitemere tilted his head back. "Come on!"

"What... what are you doing?"

"Baring my throat for the knife! Good God, man, must I teach you your job?" He drew his finger across his throat, just below the stubbled jaw.

"I wasn't going to use a knife," Carruthers said, still indignant. "Assassins have plenty of tools that aren't knives."

"Oh, I _do_ beg your pardon for having given voice to a _cliché of assassination_." Whitemere rolled his eyes so hard he nearly fell over. " _Dreadfully_ thoughtless of me."

"And that's not how you slit a throat." Carruthers stepped closer. "You cut it... here."

He slid his fingertip neatly across Whitemere's carotid artery in a brief, gentle caress.

The two men stared at each other, inhaling the fog of brandy fumes.

"Hell with it," Whitemere breathed. He grabbed Carruthers' coat and dragged the other man to him for a clumsy, hungry kiss.

* * *

Some time later, Carruthers reached down from Whitemere's bed and snagged the bottle of brandy. He took a swig of the remaining fine liquor and passed the bottle to his employer-target-lover.

"This complicates the job a bit," he mused.

"Is that your way of saying you want more money?" Whitemere mumbled into the pillow. He rolled onto his back, swilled brandy, and coughed as some of it went down the wrong way.

"No," Carruthers said. "I ought to return your fee, actually, seeing as how I've entirely failed to do what you hired me to do."

"Keep it," Whitemere said, wiping his mouth. "I've got piles more. And you did bestow what the French call the little death, though I actually found it quite invigorating. Bloody French, think they know everything."

Carruthers smirked. "Have you rediscovered your will to live, then?"

"I never lost it, to tell the truth." Whitemere glanced away, appearing to be making a close study of his drapes. "This was just a way to get you into my bedroom."

"That was quite a risk," Carruthers said, the smirk softening into a genuine smile. "I was fully prepared to do you in."

"Oh, I'm well done in." Whitemere looked back over at him with a sultry expression that suggested a second go-'round wasn't out of the question.

"Look," Carruthers murmured as he shifted closer and drew a finger down Whitemere's bare chest, "don't let it get about that I let a target seduce me, all right?"

"Should anyone ask my opinion as to which assassin to hire," Whitemere said, gasping a little as Carruthers tweaked his nipple, "which no one will because who in their right mind would ever imagine that I could know such a thing—mmph, not so hard—yes, ah, like that—I forget how this sentence began."

"It doesn't matter," Carruthers said, his fingers darting lower.

"Oh, yes, your—ah—professional reputation." Whitemere squirmed. "God, yes, right there. Well, look, you can always—ahh!—always come back tomorrow night and try again."

"I'll do that," Carruthers said, and then they were done with talking.


End file.
